He had admired them from afar during the past years of his life. These young, reckless, 20-something-year-olds who had a zeal and zest for fly-fishing that seemed to consume their lives and take precedence over all responsible pursuits. These youngsters had no worries of graduate schools, careers moves, financial debt or other “middle class” burdens. Not that they did not think about those matters…they just chose not to fret about them believing that life’s travails would find a way to resolve themselves.
These young guns were absorbed with fishing the next Montana trout stream or creating the next killer fly pattern or editing the next best drone video. Famous fly-fishing writers had even coined phrases such as “trout bum” to describe their lifestyle. Their entire being revolved around the singular passion of fly-fishing. Even their fly-fishing attire, with shirts in pastel blue and olive-green hues, made them look stylish without even trying. Secretly, he had envied their singular passion as they pursued one of God’s stunning creations in the most spectacular places on the planet.
But he had been too embarrassed and ashamed to have ever admitted that to anyone. This group of seemingly misguided, irresponsible individuals embodied all that was scorned and foreign to his upbringing. He was raised to value advanced schooling, work ethic and personal sacrifice, which he was taught was the formula to become a “successful “and respected adult. Recreational activities such as fly-fishing were fine, but never before all the work was complete and family responsibilities satisfied. His mother’s favorite saying: “Let’s get our work done first,” could have been inscribed on her headstone and would have been 100-percent accurate. He never questioned this, knowing that his parents had been raised during the Great Depression and this was more or less how they survived that era. It was only natural for him to follow this formula to guide him in his early and middle career years.
And he was successful. He climbed the corporate ladder, working for the same company for 30 years. He relocated the family several times to advance his career. He and his wife raised two fine sons in the process. The needs of his wife and sons had always come first in his personal life. That’s the way he wanted it. His boys attended the finest schools because he believed in education and wanted them to have every advantage. He was always there for their sports activities and even coached when they were young. But as the song said, there were planes to catch and bills to pay and he was always hustling to stay ahead. He had eagerly anticipated the day when his sons would graduate college and start their own careers. Maybe then he could slow down, look over his shoulder and gaze across the meadow at the young guns fly-fishing in the cold mountain streams.
And then life’s events began to happen in quick succession. His father died after a long and debilitating illness. The last years of his life had not been kind to his father. His physical activity had been limited due to his lung illness and he basically was just existing. But the family soldiered on with their lives after the loss of his dad, with his sons now absorbed with their own demanding careers.
Then, a few years later, his mother died unexpectedly. She had health issues as well, but her gene pool had dictated that she should have lived longer. Anyone who has experienced the loss of their surviving parent knows that after your emotions and the estate have been settled and the property is divided among surviving siblings, it is time to reflect on one’s own life and contemplate your remaining years.
Montana Flyfishing by Paul Tunkis, watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.
He was certain of one thing, however. As much as he had admired his parents, he did not want to end up like them—bed-ridden and merely existing. Even though he believed in the Trinity and the everlasting life, he admitted that his remaining physical existence on this earth seemed empty and, as yet, unfulfilled, and he was not ready for the next step. Yes, he had been proud of his own accomplishments and achievements, but he yearned to rediscover the remaining zeal and zest left in his current life. At his age, he faced the stark reality that he must “get busy living” or he would die unfulfilled.
Then, a curious thing happened. He received an unexpected invitation from his son to go fly-fishing for trout in a remote mountain stream in the western part of a neighboring state. It was curious because he had never been fly-fishing for trout in his life, and his grown son knew that well. His son had moved away years ago for his career and had become an avid fly-fisherman, building his own rods and tying his own flies. Fly-fishing had been a stress reliever for his son and good trout waters were only an hour away in the mountains from where he lived.
The old man had always fished as a kid, but never fished with a fly rod. He came to learn later that he had been one of those bait fisherman that purist detested. And he had been a meat fisherman also, well before there was such a thing as catch-and-release. So on that trip, he didn’t know the difference between a Chubby Chernobyl and a Blue Winged Olive fly, but he was excited to go anywhere with his son, especially fishing, even though he owned no fly rod, waders or boots.
He had thought even if they caught no fish they could catch up on life’s happenings and talk about the things fathers and sons talk about. So with a borrowed rod and the wrong size wading boots, he went fly-fishing with his son. “Clumsy” was the term the old man would later write in his journal to describe his initial skill level. But he caught some small brook trout that day, just barely surviving the physical hike out from the remote mountain stream. Later in his life, the old man would look back and realize that this singular trip was the start of his “get busy living” awakening.
And thus began the most rewarding and satisfying final years of the old man’s life. His passion for fly-fishing blossomed and he became skilled with the fly rod. He had become fascinated with all aspects of fly fishing—the terminology, the history, the rods, the lines, the flies and the rivers. He even built his own custom bamboo rod.
He and his son traveled out West and fished the fabled rivers of Montana and Idaho that he had read about. He even dabbled in saltwater tarpon fishing in the Keys. He became a voracious reader and soon his sporting library was overflowing with the works of McGuane, Gierach, Altizer, Pallot and Lefty. He had told his son once that he got almost as much pleasure reading about fly-fishing as going. So they began sharing books so often that the original ownership was always in doubt. He even bought a few olive-green and pastel blue fishing shirts. His zeal and zest were back. The young guns he had envied earlier in his life had nothing on the old man now.
He finally retired for good and moved closer to his son and the mountain streams. He had told his wife that in his final years he just needed to be near “moving water.” She was hesitant at first. After all, it had taken the old man 70 years to finally realize that. But she ultimately embraced the new life they had chosen.
After the move, they got to witness the birth of their granddaughter and he even bought her first fly rod when she was five years old. Even though he had gotten a late start, the old man became a fixture in the local fly-fishing community. He even conducted fly tying seminars for kids at the local fly shops and helped introduce them to fishing.
The old man continued his idyllic fly-fishing lifestyle for several more years before his health declined and walking became difficult. He had always worried that he may have health problems later, and now wished he had started his fly-fishing quest earlier in life. But on his final fishing trip that morning to his favorite cold mountain stream, his walk down the path to the water slowed as he emerged from the forest and into the clearing.
As he entered the meadow, he paused and gazed over his shoulder. Off in the distance, standing near a ripple on a bend in the stream, he could make out the faint image of an old man with a bamboo fly rod wearing a faded olive-green fishing shirt. And as he squinted to improve his vision through the early morning mist rising off the water, it appeared as though the man was tying a No. 22 Blue Winged Olive fly to his line. The old man had a contented smile on his face. He was satisfied now. Life had indeed been good.